You can’t kill the spirit of the lionhearted.
Lionhearted body parts.
Bricks for shoulders,
tied to heaven.
Silent names on lips.
Medicated fingertips.
Brave, because I keep
the real secrets at bay.
Strong, because I trash
my strife and walk tall
with you on my back.
Weak, because I can
scream and scream,
but you only get
whispers out of me.
Prose in eyes,
the real cries still unseen.
Color and whimsy in a mind
too open, it faucets your
toxicity down to my heart.
Hands that only hold ghosts.
Feet that only walk forward,
but trip into nostalgia.
Hips that guard my
penetrable heart against
impenetrable heartache.
Arms that have held everyone
else's child but my own.
An empty belly by choice and earthquaked nerves, trembling and begging my throat to stand up to me in its name.
Ears filled with dedicated
songs and kept secrets.
And my face...the president
of my body's nation, never losing character in the midst of war.
No one has ever taken the time to know my parts. Yet, here I am, having memorized everyone's slightest breaths.